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thecapitol2015-05-08 02:33 pm
quiethumerus) wrote in thecapitol2015-05-08 02:33 pm
Entry tags:
Doll-dagga buzz-buzz ziggety-zag, Godmod grotesque burlesque drag
Who| Kurloz and OPEN, special prompt for D4s.
What| The new stylist settles in.
Where| D4’s floor and the main commons
When| A day or so following his network post and on.
WARNINGS| Language?
The Office room, for D4 (and not)
He decides to dress down. Something simple, casual for the process involved with getting to know each Tribute. Comfortable.
Comfortable comes in the form of skull-cut shirt and dark shorts over golden patterned leggings matching his bear-trap epaulets. His makeup is set to match, filling out the open shirt collar, gold-brushed flower pieces tucked into his hair. Each curl has been duly attended to, nearly unrecognizable for sharing attribute of the disgusting mop of the Traitor’s rats nest, and to the ends he’s added the lightest dusting of yet more gold and some purple. He almost thought at one point to get the indigo of his eyes surgically removed, change it to a pitch black or back to it’s natural blue-grey-almost-purple, but having had it since his youth, it may as well have always been his and it worked so well. Yes, he thinks, this will do nicely for casual introduction. He keeps the masks off this time, letting his stitched mouth go exposed.
He’s got his pens and paper ready at his desk, a chair for himself there and a lounge piece for his guests to stretch out upon. He’s got his cloth pieces set out around in all textures, and colors for his use, his materials collect in neat rows and organized boxes. There is a faint shimmer to the place, like already he’s left a coat of glitter upon it all. He’s made his home here fast with partially melted candles of all hues and collected rows of animal skulls with tags stating their latin names in neatly written cursive. Books are stacked half-hazardly upon a shelf featuring the names of old plays, particularly the shakespearean, and some with names referencing to things “arcane” for whatever that amounts to in the Capitol. There are draping curtains and genetically modified flowers that glimmer in the light. The window projection has been changed from city scenery to some distant beach whose waves crash mutely upon the shore.
There is a bright terrarium in one corner where a small snake with iridescent scales lives. The creature while not much physically modified by genetic experimentation, has been modified for better behavioural attributes including higher proclivity for affection. It is the prize of the room, the only to beat out the worn picture of a young boy and his even younger brother, caught in the glare of sun wearing toothy grins. The picture is tucked into the desk corner, angled so that it’s non-visible to those who don’t look for it.
When all fussing is done, all that’s left is to wait. And thankfully it isn’t for long with the knock of what he hopes is one of his Tributes come for their appointment with him. He greets the door with a bright smile that pulls at his threads.
Commons - a
The wonder of it doesn’t cease. He’s in the Tribute tower. He works here. He’s not just a Stylist he’s going to be District four’s stylist. The head stylist to be exact, giving order to the underlings for the making of masterpieces upon his people. He doesn’t imagine it any kind of dream, but perhaps some cruel joke. He might awake tomorrow and find all of the tower gone.
There is much work to be done but he has to take a look around, a short one at the very least. He visits the different floors, steeling peeks at the Training Center he couldn't enter, where the killers prepared for the fight and the survivors for the run. Even the common room holds a sort of glory, brilliant marble fireplaces and shining chandeliers. There are magazines lain out, either forgotten by some Tribute or other, or left out for someone to read.
He dares a peek at the first one, seeing what gossip he may have missed in all the excitement of these last few weeks. It’s really a shame that traitor’s face features so prominently on the one beneath it. That just won’t do.
He drops his magazine and plucks up the garbage. With a smile still upon his face, he carts that magazine on towards the fireplace. Then, ever so pleased to do so, he drops it into the flame. Oops.
Commons - b
In soon enough time, he’s settled at the bar. One quick grind of a blender later and his meal has been served, a curly straw stuck in it and slipped through the stitches of his lips. He’s got wide eyes for cataloging every face he sees and ears listening close for the newest gossip as there was always something. He has an image to craft and so is not kicking his feet but keeping those heels firmly upon him, one leg folded finely over the other.
There is a fair bit of space around him, chairs entirely free despite the normal chaos of this lobby. This may or may not have to do with the visiting Capitolites going to any conceivable means to avoid the chairs located beside him.
Oddly, he doesn’t seem to mind.
What| The new stylist settles in.
Where| D4’s floor and the main commons
When| A day or so following his network post and on.
WARNINGS| Language?
The Office room, for D4 (and not)
He decides to dress down. Something simple, casual for the process involved with getting to know each Tribute. Comfortable.
Comfortable comes in the form of skull-cut shirt and dark shorts over golden patterned leggings matching his bear-trap epaulets. His makeup is set to match, filling out the open shirt collar, gold-brushed flower pieces tucked into his hair. Each curl has been duly attended to, nearly unrecognizable for sharing attribute of the disgusting mop of the Traitor’s rats nest, and to the ends he’s added the lightest dusting of yet more gold and some purple. He almost thought at one point to get the indigo of his eyes surgically removed, change it to a pitch black or back to it’s natural blue-grey-almost-purple, but having had it since his youth, it may as well have always been his and it worked so well. Yes, he thinks, this will do nicely for casual introduction. He keeps the masks off this time, letting his stitched mouth go exposed.
He’s got his pens and paper ready at his desk, a chair for himself there and a lounge piece for his guests to stretch out upon. He’s got his cloth pieces set out around in all textures, and colors for his use, his materials collect in neat rows and organized boxes. There is a faint shimmer to the place, like already he’s left a coat of glitter upon it all. He’s made his home here fast with partially melted candles of all hues and collected rows of animal skulls with tags stating their latin names in neatly written cursive. Books are stacked half-hazardly upon a shelf featuring the names of old plays, particularly the shakespearean, and some with names referencing to things “arcane” for whatever that amounts to in the Capitol. There are draping curtains and genetically modified flowers that glimmer in the light. The window projection has been changed from city scenery to some distant beach whose waves crash mutely upon the shore.
There is a bright terrarium in one corner where a small snake with iridescent scales lives. The creature while not much physically modified by genetic experimentation, has been modified for better behavioural attributes including higher proclivity for affection. It is the prize of the room, the only to beat out the worn picture of a young boy and his even younger brother, caught in the glare of sun wearing toothy grins. The picture is tucked into the desk corner, angled so that it’s non-visible to those who don’t look for it.
When all fussing is done, all that’s left is to wait. And thankfully it isn’t for long with the knock of what he hopes is one of his Tributes come for their appointment with him. He greets the door with a bright smile that pulls at his threads.
Commons - a
The wonder of it doesn’t cease. He’s in the Tribute tower. He works here. He’s not just a Stylist he’s going to be District four’s stylist. The head stylist to be exact, giving order to the underlings for the making of masterpieces upon his people. He doesn’t imagine it any kind of dream, but perhaps some cruel joke. He might awake tomorrow and find all of the tower gone.
There is much work to be done but he has to take a look around, a short one at the very least. He visits the different floors, steeling peeks at the Training Center he couldn't enter, where the killers prepared for the fight and the survivors for the run. Even the common room holds a sort of glory, brilliant marble fireplaces and shining chandeliers. There are magazines lain out, either forgotten by some Tribute or other, or left out for someone to read.
He dares a peek at the first one, seeing what gossip he may have missed in all the excitement of these last few weeks. It’s really a shame that traitor’s face features so prominently on the one beneath it. That just won’t do.
He drops his magazine and plucks up the garbage. With a smile still upon his face, he carts that magazine on towards the fireplace. Then, ever so pleased to do so, he drops it into the flame. Oops.
Commons - b
In soon enough time, he’s settled at the bar. One quick grind of a blender later and his meal has been served, a curly straw stuck in it and slipped through the stitches of his lips. He’s got wide eyes for cataloging every face he sees and ears listening close for the newest gossip as there was always something. He has an image to craft and so is not kicking his feet but keeping those heels firmly upon him, one leg folded finely over the other.
There is a fair bit of space around him, chairs entirely free despite the normal chaos of this lobby. This may or may not have to do with the visiting Capitolites going to any conceivable means to avoid the chairs located beside him.
Oddly, he doesn’t seem to mind.
no subject
The point of it is a sign: I cracked you, and I want you to know it.
His arms fold. "No thanks. I'm fine standing."
Honestly, it would be more comfortable to sit with his leg still healing like this, but he doesn't want to give him even that. It's a polite dismissal, right? He ain't even bothered.
no subject
There's an urge to narrow his eyes when Karkat refusing sitting, knowing it's just to get further win on him. But his eyes flick down instead at the way he favors one leg over the other, then back up, smiling returning tighter than before but with a clear taunting suit yourself.
He extends his hand out without looking. The pen and paper the Avox delivers are set in before the serf is scurrying off. There are no thank you's from him to the criminal.
Now comes working out what to write. Whatever it will be, it won't be the full truth of his stitches. There was a reason those were in.
LOOSE TONGUES FLAP, PLAGUE PREVALENT. IT TIRES. NOT A WASTED WORD SLIPS THROUGH MY DENTITION. ONLY THOSE WHO CARE SO MUCH TO DESIRE THE ENGAGEMENT.
Which, he wants known, would be this offworlder right here. Let it be clear that he is not the one who cares here.
THE DIFFERENCES OF MINESELF AND THAT TRAITOR WRETCH ARE NUMEROUS. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM A HUMAN BEING. I HELD THIS SACRED SILENCE FAR LONGER THAN THAT BOISTEROUS WARMONGERING CREATURE. I AM BORN OF PEACE AND I AM NOT SO LAUGHABLY DOLTISH TO MISTAKE MYSELF FOR HIM.
no subject
He rolls his eyes once the explanation is written and up for him to read.
"You still look like him, and you cannot tell me you don't know full well that everyone's thinking it. Kurloz Makara," he speaks out, each syllable clear and sharp as a knife. "And even if you set him aside, even if you aren't a criminal, so what? You're still keeping your mouth shut and silent like any other Avox around here. It's weird, and I don't have to be from Panem to know it."
His hand lifts up to wave airily. "By the way, I never pretended my mouth wasn't a plague. That's the point, Makara."
no subject
YOU VASTLY UNDERESTIMATE AND MISUNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF AVOXES. AVOXES ARE NOT MUTE PEOPLE. AVOXES ARE NOT PEOPLE. THEY WILL NEVER COMMIT A CRIME AGAIN. MURDERERS, THEIVES, MONSTERS. ALL MADE PERFECT FUNCTIONING PIECES. THE NATURE OF THEIR SILENCE IS NOT THE LOSS OF THEIR TONGUE, BUT THE PAYMENT OF THEIR PERSON IN PRICE OF THEIR CRIMES. I DO NOT SERVE YOU. NOT UNLESS YOU WERE TO ASK VERY NICELY AND I DEIGNED TO OBLIGE. :)
Which was to say, he wouldn't.
THE THEFT AND SHARE OF COUNTENANCE DOES NOT MEAN THE SAME OF IDENTITY. IDENTICAL FACE HAS BEEN WORN BY CAPITOL-BORN SOCIALITES AND THAT FUSSING TRIBUTES WITH ONLY THEIR BRAINS TO SAVE THEM. OR NOT. I HAVE WITNESSED A MASS MURDERER AND A HERO WHO IS HERE NOW BOTH CAVORT AMONG THE TRIBUTES WITH NO MORE SIMILARITY BUT THE SEMBLANCE BORN OF THEM. MY OWN BROTHER COULD PASS A TWIN TO ME, THOUGH HE IS NOT. OUR UNIVERSE IS AN ENCHANTED THING.
At least they agreed on Karkat's mouth plague.
no subject
"You're still keeping a trait that reminds, isn't it? You can whine about the details, and no shit you're obviously not the full thing, but anyone sees you and your stitched-up no-talk mouth and it's going to remind of that traitor, no matter how many pretty arguments you make about it. You look like him, you talk like Makara despite being from a whole different universe, you burn random shit that I doubt belonged to you... What's your deal?" he presses.
He'd like to ask enough why the universe acts as it does, but it's neither new nor surprising that Kurloz isn't the only one. He met Porrim well before he showed up for work, but that hasn't worn the strangeness from his mind.
no subject
YOU PRESUME THEN THAT THE PROBLEM IS MINE THAT SOME ARE SO SIMPLE AS TO BE INCAPABLE OF SEPARATION FROM THE PAST AND A PERSON ASIDE MYSELF. I SUPPOSE YOU REGULARLY POINT OUT THE SIGNLESS IS A PROJECTING PEST BECAUSE HE SHARES YOUR COUNTENANCE AND THEREFORE MUST BE THE SAME. OR PERHAPS I OUGHT POINT OUT THAT YOUR SPECIES IS THE SAME AS THE TRAITOR'S AND THEREFORE YOU MUST ALSO BE ONE.
IT IS NOT I WHO IS BEING PETTY. THERE IS NO DEAL. I AM WHO I AM AND WHO I AM NOT IS IRRELEVANT.
He did not need to engage in this inane argument any further. Especially when it seems clear Karkat is going to think what he wants. Such a shame there wasn't a councillor for all this. If this had to be put up with there ought at least be pay for it.
no subject
He catches himself. He's not deaf to his own noise, and as much as he very much doesn't want to walk away from this, he knows he's in fragile standing. His lips press closed; the growl cuts off.
"This is pointless," he snaps in a tone he's sure neither one of them can believe, then he turns to stalk off for the elevators. He needs distance before he does anything stupid.